


Even Gods Bleed

by yellowmcfellow



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dream gets chased by humans who want to lock him up lmao lame, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human GeorgeNotFound, LGBTQ Themes, Lmao everyone in this fic is a god except for poor gogy, M/M, More fluff than angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, god dream, god sapnap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowmcfellow/pseuds/yellowmcfellow
Summary: In which Dream is a god who finds himself in a cell without his memory, escapes and meets George in a Starbucks café.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	1. espresso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! Trying my hand at a longer fic, I don't know how it's going to go.
> 
> Also this is a pretty long chapter (in my standards, anyway) so sorry if it's sorta slow-paced (it probably isn't. I probably just write incredibly fast paced short chapters) just please stick with me. 
> 
> And just a disclaimer that I don't actually ship Dream and George! This was just something I decided to do for fun and I will not hesitate to take this fic down if any of the ccs decide they aren't comfortable with these types of fics, thank you.

Dream wakes up in a white cell. He doesn't remember much, only his name and that he is a god. 

He also has a conspicuous tattoo on his wrist: D3. Whatever that meant.

A subliminal instinct (or just pure curiosity) causes him to examine his surroundings. A white bed is pushed up against one wall. A door is situated on the wall adjacent to it. Upon further inspection, Dream finds an air vent on the ceiling. 

There is also a small green painting on the wall, bright against the blinding white. Strangely, it is just completely green. 

Perhaps that is the moment Dream decides his favourite colour is green.

* * *

Dream slowly starts to regain his memory. He starts to do it as a way to wake up his brain every morning - a recollection of the very little information he possesses. 

_My name is Dream. I am several millennia years old and I am the God of the Sky. I can start to remember all the gods and their names now. I remember I was captured by these strange men in white and they sedated and put a memory drug on me. I'm starting to remember my powers but try as I might I cannot use them yet, which is peculiar._

That was all he could remember, for now. 

A hand appears at a little flap in his door three times a day to deliver bland, mushy food and a glass of water that tastes oddly stale. Not that Dream is complaining - food is food - but it is all a very far cry from the opulent meals he would enjoy back when he actually lived like a god. 

Life in this white cell was quite understandably boring. Dream did nothing all day except bang his head against the wall to try and _remember_ what he had lost. Then the hand would appear and he would eat a tiny bit of food and throw a temper tantrum with the rest. The lights would go out to signal curfew and when he woke up in the morning, he would find his cell scrupulously clean with no sign of the food he'd throw around every day. And then he would repeat his mantra and life repeated itself as it so often does. 

On what must be the 30th day (time isn't of the essence when you're immortal, after all, white cell or not) Dream gets even more tired of his routine than he already was and starts to think of an escape instead. After all, he is a god. Gods do not get cooped up in cells and live with it; no, they retaliate. 

Escaping is surprisingly easy - suspiciously so, as if his mysterious captors had wanted him to. Dream didn't even have to do any planning, he simply loosened the grate on the air vent and climbed in (he's a god. Gods do not lose their physical demeanour after but a month) and crawls through the vents until he sees a light. Once he draws closer it becomes clear that he's on top of some type of reception desk, and in front of that desk is a door that leads outside. 

Dream drops down into the eerily empty room, half expecting people to jump out of the shadows at him and drag him back into that suffocating room. When none come, he sprints across the room and tries the door, which is locked. Understandably. 

So he kicks through it. 

Pleased with himself, he struts through the wooden shards and out onto a busy street. Then he stops and takes a look around and promptly stops being pleased with himself. He hadn't got to the point where he remembered all the roads, the society, and how to act in it. This street was completely foreign to him.

In the end, he just picks what looks like a café with a round green logo with a lady on it. There are words too but he can't remember how to read (how embarrassing). He walks into it with the intentions of getting something to eat, something that hopefully isn't mush. 

He stops in front of a tired-looking - but also cute - barista and stares because he can't at all remember how to order a coffee, nor does he have the money (although it's not like he'd remember how to use the money anyway). 

The barista stares back.

* * *

George is very tired. He's taken both the night shift and now the day shift, but he needed the money so he sucked it up. He regrets it, though, especially because it's a very quiet day and he's forgotten to bring his fucking phone so he ends up standing there daydreaming some quite impressively vivid daydreams about his bed. 

That's probably why he takes a few seconds to register the man standing in front of him looking like he just broke out of prison. His brain takes a few moments to form two thoughts: _ohmygod is he a murderer am I getting killed_ and _ohmygod he's so fucking attractive_. He blames the latter thought on the fact that he's sleep-deprived. 

They have a very uncomfortable staring contest which George breaks off in the end because _fuck fuck he's going to kill me but I don't even care because he's hot_.

"Uh," he squeaks. "Can I.. get you something?" He bites his lip to stop the words, "Because you look like you need it," from coming out of his mouth because that probably isn't the ideal thing to say to someone who looks like he would beat the shit out of him.

"I..." the man pauses and looks like he's contemplating something, "Want... a coffee?" He sounds like he's just learned how to speak. 

"Um," George's voice cracks and he tries to clear his throat as discreetly as possible because _fuck this guy is so hot_ , "You'll have to be more specific. Mocha? Uh... cappuccino? Espresso? We have a list back there," he gestures vaguely at the frappuccinos before quickly correcting where his arm was pointing, trying to convince himself that it was the tiredness and definitely not because he just noticed this man's build and wasn't sure whether he was intimidated or impressed. 

The man looks confused.

George wonders how a possibly escaped convict got this far without knowing how to order coffee.

* * *

Dream stared at the barista pointing at the coffee. He hadn't thought this far into his plan. He forgot where his confident, smart self went. Away with his memory, he supposes. 

"The... espresso?" He hesitates, not sure what was the difference between the types of coffees this barista listed. 

"O...kay. Single or double shot?" The barista responds. 

Dream stares some more. 

The poor barista looks like he's gonna shit his pants. 

"Double?" Dream guesses. 

The barista nods. Smiles the strained smile of someone who looks like they'd rather be anywhere else but here. "That will be $3.25."

Dream bobs his head and stands there stupidly, trying to look like he understood. 

"Um. Cash or card?" The barista asks after a tense silence. 

"Card?" Dream asks. 

"Okay. Uh." 

Dream stares at the barista and waits for him to say something else. He's not sure what he's supposed to do and feels his cheeks getting even redder than they already were. He'd rather be in that cell than here in front of the flustered barista. 

"Uh. Card? Sorry, here." The barista tries, pushing a small machine towards Dream with numbers on it. The barista presses on some of them then turns it back to Dream expectantly. 

Dream looks down at the machine. He looks up at the barista. Looks back down at the machine as his cheeks rival the redness of a tomato. 

"Never mind." The barista pulls the machine back to himself abruptly. "I'll make your coffee, sorry. Feel free to sit down."

* * *

George doesn't know why he gives this man a free coffee. Possibly because the poor guy looked completely bewildered. Most probably because George was terrified of the fact that this man looked like he could and would beat him up. 

He feels the eyes of the customer on him as he works. Occasionally he would turn around and lock eyes with the man, who wouldn't even attempt to look away. It made the whole ordeal even more awkward than it already was. 

When he was finished with making the espresso, he sets it down at the table the guy sat down at and, for some reason, lingers. The man grabs the paper cup and takes a gulp, spitting it out all over George a second later.

George doesn't know whose cheeks are redder. 

"Sorry, I'm so sorry. I just..." The man trails off. 

"Oh, it's fine, I'll just..." George trails off as well. 

And that's when the man laughs. Wheezes. Wheezes so hard he croaks and coughs. 

George, suffice to say, did not feel like this was a situation to laugh about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys if you made it this far!
> 
> Also please I'm not creative enough to make up a way for Dream to escape just roll with the very conveniently placed air vents. 
> 
> Next chapter Dream explains himself to poor old Gogmeister :))


	2. lumpy couches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No thoughts head empty just read the chapter
> 
> You could argue that there's no need to add a note if I have nothing to say but that's not how I work bucko

Geoge doesn't know why he stays even after he gets spat on. But he does. 

Once the man stopped laughing he attempted to look serious and said, "Sorry."

George couldn't help but mutter, "You should be," and then he curses himself because that's not how you're supposed to talk to a customer. But seeing that the customer just covered him in his spit and then laughed at him, he decided it was justified.

"I'm sorry!" The man laughs, "I just... forgot how strong espresso was."

"Of course it's strong, it's a double shot of espresso. What did you expect?" George asks. And then he added, "And what do you mean, forgot?"

The man sighed. "It's a long story."

* * *

George is supposed to be behind the counter serving nonexistent customers. Instead, he staring wide-eyed at a confirmed madman trying to tell him that he's a god. 

George sighs.

It's been a long day. 

The madman - Dream, he said his name was - stops talking and attempts another sip of his espresso. George watches curiously as he makes an effort to look like he's enjoying it. Once Dream puts down the espresso and winces as he gulps but covers it up with a smile, George speaks. 

"You cannot expect me to believe you," he starts, thinking about how he could be back at his tiny flat right now in a very tempting bed instead of in front of an unreasonably hot madman. 

"I thought you'd say that," Dream sighs. "Will I have to prove it?" 

"Yes, you will," George confirms. 

Dream sighs again. He pushes out of his chair and stands up, closing his eyes. George cocks his head to the side and watches him through narrowed eyes, wondering whether he knew how odd he looked right now. 

Nothing happened. George was close to just getting up and back to what he was supposed to be doing but then the sky went dark. Just completely black. 

Dream grins. 

The sky turns back on a second later. 

Dream sits down at the table again and grips his coffee cup. 

"Do you believe me now?"

"Coincidence," George says airily, waving his hands about. 

"I shouldn't have done that, actually." Dream says, choosing to ignore what George just said. 

"No, you shouldn't have. Everyone will be freaked out now. It will be on the news." George retorts, then realised that that sounded like he believed that Dream was, in fact, a god. So he hastily adds, "Not like I think you're a god. It'll just be... over the news. You know."

"I couldn't care less about the news. I'm talking about the people I'm running from." Dream says, still ignoring George's comments. 

"The _what_?" George snaps. "Didn't you think it would've been a good idea to _tell_ me that you were running from someone? Are you _illegal_?"

"Oh, probably a lot more than illegal," Dream says good naturedly. 

George wonders whether it's too late to call the police. 

"Definitely too late," Dream smiles, then winks. 

"Oh my god," George says.

* * *

So maybe Dream was messing with this barista, just a little. Maybe he had no idea whether what he was doing was illegal or not. And maybe he shouldn't have read the barista's mind. But it was fun. 

He finds himself explaining his whole cell ordeal to this man as well, which he had left out as much as he could in his last explanation. 

The barista stares at him again once he finishes. "Where... where is it? You must know since you just barged in here."

"Oh, just down the street. It's that white building over there, see?" 

The barista gapes at him some more. Dream finds a smile stretching across his face yet again.

* * *

_This man is officially insane_ , George thinks to himself, ignoring the fact that he's had that thought several times in the last 20 minutes. 

"The people who locked you up are across the fucking street? And you thought it would be a good idea to strut into a café and have a long chat with a stranger over coffee? Oh my god," George puts his face into his hands dramatically. 

"I mean... I didn't mean to stay long. I was meaning to just get the coffee and go. But then... you know." 

"Okay, we're leaving now. Come on. And leave the coffee that you so obviously hate," George says. 

"But your job?" Dream asks. 

"Forget my job," George surprises even himself by the words that leave his mouth. "I have more important things to worry about now."

He doesn't miss the smile that reappears on Dream's face. 

George regrets his decision once they get back to his flat. In the short time Dream's been in it, George discovers a few new things about him, which is that Dream is messy, that he's clumsy (he's somehow already broken a vase [that, may it be added, was in the cupboard, not even out. Had George not been furious, he would've been impressed]), that when he does break something, he blames it on everything except himself ("It's so big! I was reaching for the glass behind it - which is shit placement of glasses, might I add - and it just got in my way!"), and that he's definitely a god. 

"Please," George exclaims, almost crying from exasperation, "Please just sleep on the couch. I only have one bed." 

"The couch is lumpy. I'm not sleeping on a lumpy couch," Dream snaps. 

"I'm sorry my home isn't fit to your preferences, _Your Highness_ ," George responds, just as snappily, "But you're going to have to deal with it. Besides, you have a lot more worries to think about instead of whether my couch is comfortable enough for you, which it _is_." 

"We can just sleep on your bed together! Besides, if you're so intent on us sleeping apart, why don't you just take the couch and I'll take the bed!" 

George looks sceptically down at the single bed definitely intended for only one person for the former part of Dream's ridiculous sentence and then baulks at the latter. 

"It's my bed! I let you into my house - now very much against my will - and I'm not letting you take my bed as well! There is nowhere else to sleep if you don't sleep on the couch unless you count the floor! Do you want to sleep on the floor, because there's plenty of that!" George bellows.

Then he pointedly ignores the, "There's not really plenty of that," mutter from Dream.

* * *

It goes without saying who won the argument. 

George glares at his alarm clock as he lies uncomfortably close to Dream on his bed. Dream is asleep but he's very awake, either because he's processing the fact that a god is in his house or because he's processing the fact that that aforementioned god is lying right next to him. And that that aforementioned god is unfairly hot. 

It could also be because he's been nudged to a tiny sliver of his own bed. 

Dream mumbles something in his sleep and turns over and pulls George close. George almost starts before he remembers that Dream is asleep and probably wouldn't appreciate being woken up. So he relaxes into Dream's arms, convincing himself that it's only because it's more comfortable this way. 

They are definitely cuddling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I might have made them both sorta dickheads whoops :)))


	3. beetroot powder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really feel like writing but I was supposed to write a chapter yesterday and didn't so here it is :D 
> 
> Oh and also do you guys know whether I should add all the tags that are relevant to the fic now or add them as I go along and they pop up? Because like I've got the God Sapnap thing and I'm fully planning to add him but at the same time he's not in the fic yet?? so that might be misleading...

Dream wakes up to a warmth pressed to his chest. He looks down in surprise to find himself hugging the barista to his body, their legs tangled together. Once he gets over the initial shock of cuddling with someone he only met yesterday he relaxes again and enjoys the warmth. 

After a while he gets tired of dozing so he jumps up as gently as he can so as not to disturb the sleeping barista and glides to the kitchen, the ghost of a smile on his face.

It is only then that he realises he still hasn't gotten this barista's name. Better ask him once he wakes up. 

He looks around the flat under the soft light of the morning. He hadn't gotten a good look at it yesterday due to... complications with the sleeping arrangements, but he decides to inspect it now. It's a small flat, understandably. The kitchen, dining room and living room are all joined together and make up 80% of the entire flat. Despite all flowing together it still doesn't give off the illusion of a large space. 

Dream pads over to one of the cupboards and pulls it open. He has been recovering his memory at a fast pace but he still doesn't remember how to cook - although it's not like he knew how to before he'd lost his memory. 

It takes a few seconds for him to register what the cupboard's full of. Packets and packets of something pink. He picks up one of the packets and takes a closer look. He has started to regain his reading and writing skills, although he can't remember everything. He remembers the alphabet but not what certain words sound like when they're paired up with other words and... 

Dream sighs. 

His healing process will be a slow one. 

He can see what the packet says: _"100% Organic Beetroot Powder"_ but he still doesn't quite understand how to read it. The letters feel so familiar and yet so foreign, and he's standing there mouthing the words when he hears quiet laughter and whirls around. 

The barista stands there, shoulders shaking. Dream frowns at him and wonders what's so funny. 

"You've found m' guilty pleasure, I see," the barista says, grabbing the packet from Dream's hand and putting it back in the cupboard. 

" _What is this_?" Dream asks. 

"Beetroot powder. It's pretty healthy, y'know. I like drinking it in the mornings," the man responds, smiling a shy smile. 

"What is your name?" Dream demanded whilst wondering what one man needed with so much powder, smoothies in the morning or not. 

"George," George says brightly. "D'you want breakfast?" 

He slurs a bit when he's sleepy, Dream realises. It's endearing. He smiles.

George frowns back. 

"Don't stand there looking at me all soft like that. D'you want breakfast or not? Because believe it or not, my other cupboards actually contain food," he snaps. 

Not endearing anymore, Dream thinks unhappily. His grin widens at that. "Yes, please. And you better not be as bad at making breakfast as you are at making coffee."

George lets out a little screech before he laughs. "I'll have you know that many have ranked me as the best Starbucks barista in the whole of Great Britain! Just because you're a pussy who can't handle espresso doesn't mean it's my fault! And just keep in mind that I am making _your_ breakfast, so be careful what you say or else you might find my hand just _slipping_ and dropping your scrambled eggs into the stovetop." 

Dream laughs. It feels good to laugh again, like how he did after spitting espresso over George. Even when he'd lived up in the sky with all the other gods he hadn't really laughed much; no, they just went about their duty. The only words exchanged between gods were words of wisdom, which, while helpful at times, get tiring in others.

George cocks his head and Dream shakes himself out of his short reverie. "Well, barista boy? Are you gonna make my breakfast or not?" 

George flips him off and moves to turn on the cooktop, muttering about how Dream is supposed to pay him. Dream smiles again. 

He thinks he's smiled more in the past couple of days than he has in his entire lifetime. 

He's happy here, he realises. He'd rather be here in the small flat with George screeching about how he's burnt the sausages than up in the clouds surrounded by people but still alone. The only thing that he'd even consider to be close to a friend were the stars that he'd made; the moon that he'd crafted; the sun that he'd nurtured. 

George slides a plate of scrambled eggs, peas and extremely black sausages over to Dream, shrugging at his quizzical look. "It's less burnt than it looks. And until you start cooking, you can't complain," he grumbles. 

Dream looks down at his plate with what he hoped was a politely baffled look. "It's completely burnt," he points out.

"No shit, Sherlock. The inside's fine, though," George repeats. 

"Aren't you a fucking Starbucks barista? Aren't you supposed to know how to make this stuff?" Dream asks. 

George ignores him pointedly and sits down next to him at the small, cramped dining room table.

Dream jumps as George slams down a smoothie onto it, spilling pink sludge everywhere. He almost forgot the whole thing with beetroot powder. 

"You know," George says, raising the glass to his lips and taking a long, exaggerated slurp, "It's refreshing to have company over for once." 

Dream smiles. "It's nice to be that company," he answers before shutting his eyes tightly and massaging his temples when he hears the loud smack of lips. "That smoothie must be tasting phenomenal for you to be excused from this beast-like behaviour." 

"Beast-like! Hardly! We only have to watch you savagely tearing at my sausages for an example of beast-like!" George chortles. "And it _is_ good! Want a sip? Actually, no. I don't want you spitting this all over me like you tend to do with your drinks." Then he shrieks as Dream grabs the smoothie from his hands and dumps it over his head. His face changes to one of rage. 

Dream has a feeling that he will regret this. The feeling comes true as George grabs the smoothie from his hair and rubs it on Dream's face. 

What ensues is a chaotic food fight.

And, despite being covered in peas and burnt sausage and dressed with that vile smoothie, Dream wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason I managed to write this entire thing at 12:00 AM was the Jack Stauber music playlist I was listening to LMAO.
> 
> Also I think this chapter is the equivalent to a _filler episode_ where nothing really plot-relevant gets done but I'm too tired to care.


	4. orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM IN THE PROCESS OF DOING A HUGE SCIENCE PROJECT THAT I'VE BEEN PROCRASTINATING FOR 3 WEEKS _THAT IS DUE TOMORROW_. AM I SLEEP DEPRIVED? MAYBE. IS THAT GONNA STOP ME FROM WRITING ANOTHER CHAPTER?? NO. READ THE GODDAMN CHAPTER. 
> 
> /lh but also oh my lord I am so dead.

Dream wants to be everywhere else but here.

It turns out that food fights are messy and that his grumpy roommate wants him to clean it up because "you started it!" He also doesn't have any spare clothes but he doesn't want to break that to George yet.

George comes back from changing and sighs. "Fine. I'll help you clean it up. I need to go grocery shopping today, so let's just clean this up quickly."

"But what about your job?" Dream asks as he gets handed a cloth. 

"I don't have work today. Someone else is doing it." George replies. He bends down and starts wiping at the remnants of his smoothie. After a moment's hesitation, Dream helps him.

"How has your memory been, by the way?" George quips as he works. "Have you got most of it back by now?" 

Dream huffs, "Some of it. A decent amount, I suppose. I still can't remember how to read, though." 

"What about whatever the fuck you have as powers? Do you remember how to use them?" 

"My powers are nothing special, George. I can't turn invisible or make money appear out of my ass or something. The only thing I can do is control the sky because that is what I am the god of," Dream explains as he dabs at a particularly stubborn stain. "This is not how I imagined I would spend my morning," he groans, dabbing more aggressively.

"That's your fault, Dream, for dumping that smoothie on me. I shouldn't even be helping, but I am because that's how nice I am." George responds, rolling his eyes at Dream's protesting cries. 

It turns out that cleaning up took a shorter time than Dream had dreaded. Halfway through, though, George had realised the clothing dilemma and told Dream that he could borrow some of his clothes. Which was all good and nice of him until, in the process of dressing, Dream realised that George's clothes were several times too small. He explains that to George who answers, "It's either that or wearing clothes covered in our breakfast," rather snappily. 

He finds a jumper, though, that almost fits. That makes him feel better. 

When Dream exits the room, he finds George putting on his trainers and toting a bag that is almost as big as he is. "What are you doing?" He asks in surprise, walking towards him.

George shrugs with one shoulder. "I'm going to the grocery store to buy stuff. You stay here; I won't be long." 

Dream frowns. "Why can't I come?" He asks, already ambling towards the shoe rack. 

"Hm, let me think," George grumbles. "Maybe because you have some strangers coming after you and it might not be a good idea to go outside? I don't know, is that reason enough?"

"Oh, stop being so worrisome. I'm sure they're not gonna be so obvious that they raid a local supermarket in search for me. Besides, if they do come, you can be my bodyguard," Dream smirks. 

George rolls his eyes and frowns as Dream puts on his shoes. "You look ridiculous in my clothes," is all he says as he heads out the door. Dream ignores him and examines the scenery. They look like they're somewhere in London. After a while of walking, George points at a large building and says, "that's University College Hospital. You can go there if you break a bone or your neck doing something stupid, which I wouldn't put past you. And in case you were wondering, we're in about the centre of London." 

He walks into a store that spells 'Tesco.' Dream follows him. He looks around curiously. There are a few people loitering about, and Dream instinctively moves closer to George, despite knowing how ridiculous it looked hiding behind him. 

George moves around the store, picking out food. Dream hangs around behind him, asking every few seconds whether George was finished yet, earning glares every time. 

Dream starts to get bored and thinks about going back to the flat but just as he thinks it he gets blinded by a wave of reddish-orange. He physically reels and gasps, staring at the man in front of him, who is definitely not George. The man is blinking as well. 

Gods all have a colour. It is a way to identify each other when all else fails. When a god meets another for the first time, all they will be able to see is that colour for a few seconds. As they see the other god more and more, the colour decreases drastically in intensity until it's just barely there, like an afterthought or a forgotten memory. 

Gods are also forbidden from telling other gods what the other god's colour is, so Dream and every other god has gone their whole life without knowing what colour they are, despite knowing the colour of every other god in their life. 

Dream has forgotten how it feels to meet a god. 

The man in front of him is staring at him with the most manically happy look he's ever seen. Dream feels a dry grin spread across his face. 

"Oh my god," the man says. 

Suddenly, Dream remembers something else. It's different this time. It's a memory, not a fact. It shoves itself into his subconscious so that Dream has no choice to acknowledge it. 

_He's sitting on a cloud, looking at the stars he made. They're chattering, like usual. All of them at once, so many that their individual voices aren't discernible through the throng. He's thinking about where he should add stars, where he should move them, when he feels someone else sit on the cloud as well. It's Wilbur Soot, the god of music and wisdom._

Dream remembers that he liked Wilbur Soot. He remembers that Wilbur had done something, something that was notable, but he can't remember what. That wasn't relevant to the memory, though, so he leaves it to be recovered in its own time. 

_Dream had smiled at Wilbur Soot. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just looking at the stars and listening to their voices. Then Wilbur said, "Your stars are pretty tonight."_

_Dream responded, "They are always pretty," and Wilbur had laughed._

_They fell silent again until Dream asked a question. "Wilbur," he started, and Wilbur hummed in response. "Why are we immortal? After all, I finished making the sky centuries ago. What is the point of being immortal when what you were made to do has been completed?"_

_Wilbur fell back onto the fluffy cloud. "Have you completed it?" He asked. "If you are truly done, then why do you sit in front of the sky every day? No, you are far from finished. You will never be finished, Dream, just like none of us will be. Every day you sit in front of your creation and you change things. And it needs that, Dream. It needs someone to take care of it every day. You are there every time a star dies, every time something new happens. Your job is far from finished."_

_Dream had nodded. "Wilbur," he repeats. "Do you ever get tired of being immortal? Does it ever scare you that everything will die and you won't?"_

"We _won't, Dream. You are immortal, as is everyone up here. I suppose I find a bit of solace in that."_

_"Why did you sit with me?" Dream had asked. Not unkindly, but just curiously._

_"I sensed you had a few questions to ask me. I was right." Wilbur replies. He moves into a sitting position again._

_"I have one last question, Wilbur." Dream remembered telling him. Wilbur smiled at him._

_"Why can't gods know their own colour?"_

"Wha... You... You're a..." the man stutters. 

"Shh," Dream hisses. "Not here. We'll have to speak somewhere else." He gestures around him at the people. 

George returns and stares at the man. "What are you doing speaking to this guy? Is he, like, a long lost cousin or something?" He asks Dream. 

The man stares right back at George. "Does this man know that you... you're..." 

_"Do you want the honest truth?" Wilbur had asked, and Dream nodded. "I don't know."_

_"You don't?" Dream had replied._

_"No. That rule was made aeons before I was created, Dream. I cannot explain its origins." Wilbur had said. "I can take a guess, though."_

_"What? What is your guess?" Dream queries._

_"It was for fun," Wilbur explains, and his eyes sparkle. Dream gapes at him. "It's mysterious, not knowing your own colour. It adds a bit of spice to our bland lives. I find it amusing."_

_Wilbur was a deep blue. At that moment, he'd wanted to blurt it out, to just tell him, but he didn't. It was silly, but Dream enjoyed that theory as well, that the gods weren't allowed to know their own colour just for the fun of it. It was a difference in their tedious life. Dream had grinned and the god of wisdom and music had grinned back._

_Wilbur had then disappeared as stealthily as he had arrived, leaving Dream sitting on a cloud of his own making thinking of colours and stars._

Dream ends up dragging both the man and George home, much to George's protest: "This is my house! You can't just bring everyone you find into it!" Both Dream and this strange god had ignored him, outraging him further.

By the time they get home, it is the afternoon. Dream crosses his arms at this man. "What is your name?" He commands.

"George," George says, just as the man says, "Sapnap."

Dream rolls his eyes at George. "I wasn't asking you," he says, earning a frown.

"What are you the god of, Sapnap, and why don't I remember you?" He demands. George squawks beside him, but continues to be ignored. 

"I'm not a god," Sapnap pouts. "I am a deity."

"A deity? There is no such thing as a de-" Dream gets interrupted. "Yeah, yeah, but that's what I am, _bitch_. I was _supposed_ to be the god of fire but-" 

Dream interrupts Sapnap. "The god of fire? There is already a god of fire." 

Sapnap rolls his eyes sassily. "The old man tripped on a stair or something and kicked the bucket, anyway he's not relevant. I was _supposed_ to be the next god of fire but then something happened that I will not relay to you because, uh, I don't want to and they KICKED ME OUT! Anyway, what's your story? Are you a misfit as well?" 

George shrieks, "What the hell is going on? Why are there two gods in my house?" 

Both Dream and Sapnap turn on him. "I'm a deity!" Sapnap bellows as Dream snaps, "Don't interrupt us!" 

"THIS IS MY HOUSE," George roars, and Dream recoils at the sharp tone of his voice. "I HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW WHAT IS GOING ON UNDER MY FUCKING ROOF." 

"Sorry," Dream and Sapnap mutter at the same time, like scolded children. 

"Now," George says. "What is all this about gods?"

* * *

Dream lies in bed. They're close again, close enough for Dream to hear George's almost silent snores (he ignores Sapnap's deafening snores from the couch). George is asleep curled up in his arms. Dream doesn't know how they ended up in this position, but he doesn't hate it. 

Gods aren't supposed to fall in love. He remembers that clearly enough, and he isn't, he _isn't_ in love with George. It's just comfortable and George smells nice. There is nothing else to be said. 

He's thinking about his sky. He hasn't taken care of it for at least a month, and he's worried. He slowly, silently slips away from George and treads outside the flat, walking down the several flights of stairs. He knows he can't do anything from this far away. He won't even be able to hear their murmurs. But he wants to see them. 

Dream opens the door and goes outside. 

He looks up.

There is not a single star in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHAT I LEARNED IN THE PROCESS OF MAKING THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> COFFEE IS A DRUG.
> 
> GUESS WHAT I'VE BEEN DRINKING FOR THE PAST FEW HOURS TO KEEP ME GOING.
> 
> THAT'S RIGHT. COFFEE. 
> 
> I DON'T GIVE A SHIT. GOODNIGHT.


	5. talking stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> We're finally getting to the segsy segsy part of the fic starring: Hopelessly, helplessly in love George, hopelessly, helplessly in love (and absolutely stupid) Dream, and third wheel Sapnap third-wheeling so hard he becomes a fourth wheel as well.
> 
> Also this is a slowburn it's gonna be a while okay just... enjoy the ride. 
> 
> :)

George wakes up to shouting. He sighs groggily and rubs his eyes, regretting his decision of letting two rowdy gods into his house. 

He tries dozing, but after hearing the yelling only get louder, he rolls out of bed and shuffles into the kitchen, dreading what he would find. 

The first thing he catches is a whiff of something acrid and burnt. The second thing he catches is Sapnap and Dream, standing by the disaster of whatever they were trying to cook, arguing. Arguing was putting it a bit loosely, though. They looked like they were about to put the other in a headlock. 

George leans against the doorframe and scowls, but despite everything, there is no venom in it. The liveliness is a difference in his otherwise dull life, and he already has a growing affection for Dream. Sapnap, well, in the short time he's been there, George has already deduced that he will be trouble. But life is nothing if not full of trouble, and George finds himself fond of Sapnap as well. 

He wonders how long it will take them to notice him. 

They continue to argue. 

After a while, George clears his throat. "That's a nice breakfast you've got there," he remarks, shifting a little in his slightly uncomfortable position against the doorframe. 

"George!" Dream and Sapnap exclaim at the same time. George regards them coolly. "I don't ever want to hear you complaining about my burnt sausages again, Dream," he says, trying to sound serious but cracking a smile halfway through his sentence. Then he turns to Sapnap. "Why didn't you wait for me to make the food?" 

"Because you were asleep!" Sapnap says, looking guilty. George tuts and strides over to assess the damage they had done to their meal. It was definitely past saving. He sighs and starts picking out some more ingredients for a new breakfast. 

"Wait," Dream says suddenly, appearing by his side. "I have a question." 

George hums acknowledgement as he pours oil into the pan. Dream hesitated. "George," he starts, as George hip-checks him out of the way to grab something. "Why aren't there any stars in the sky?" 

George pauses. There isn't anything that remarkable about the question, so he doesn't know why he does. He just didn't expect that to be the question to come out of Dream's mouth. "I don't know," he says. "Quite a while. Light pollution is pretty bad-" 

"Light pollution?" Dream interrupts. Sapnap snorts but they both ignore him.

"Um... it's like... artificial light that stops you from seeing the stars. I'm not quite sure, we'll have to search it up, I think it's that, but we'll have to check..." George trails off as he realises with a jolt that he's rambling. 

"How... how long? How long has light pollution stopped you from seeing the stars?" George stops and stares at Dream as he notices the note of concern in Dream's voice. "I... don't know. A while. Quite a while," he says. 

"Possibly a month?" Dream asks softly. George catches on to his concerns. "Oh! Don't worry, Dream. It's been around for much longer than that. It probably isn't something to do with your not tending to the sky."

Dream visibly sighs in relief. "Okay," he says. "That's good."

George grins at Dream reassuringly and Dream smiles back. 

"Not to interrupt you lovebirds, but whatever you put in the pan is sizzling menacingly," Sapnap snaps.

George jumps a little and turns back to the pan so quickly that he doesn't hear what Sapnap also said. 

_Lovebirds._

* * *

After two failed attempts, they decided to give up on breakfast. 

George is slightly surprised about the laziness of the two particular gods he had the misfortune to meet. He told them that they had nothing to do today, and they seemed entirely content sitting on the couch playing Minecraft, which they had discovered and taken a liking to. George watches them with his eyes half-lidded. The warm sun shining through the windows makes him sleepy. 

They're arguing about something again, but George tunes them out. He's staring, he realises, at Dream. He hadn't really properly looked at him the entirety of the short time they had together, but he allows himself to now, eyes trailing over his face as he takes him in.

He's reminded, again, of how handsome Dream is, with his dirty blonde hair and freckles like constellations of the stars he loves so much. His eyes are beautiful and golden, like a tiger's. George knows that they're actually green, but they're golden to him, and that's what matters. 

He's always hated the fact that he is colourblind, but right now he doesn't mind so much. 

In fact, if there was one word to describe Dream, it would be "golden". It's as if he were the sun itself, all heat and gold. 

George's eyes wander down to Dream's hands on the mouse. He knows it would be awkward if either Dream or Sapnap caught him staring, and he absolutely hates awkward, but he doesn't really mind that at that moment either. 

Dream's hands are big - so much bigger than his. There isn't much surprise in that - after all, _Dream_ is so much bigger than him. But still, George finds Dream's hands just as beautiful as he is. 

He pulls his gaze from Dream's hands to the screen, watching absentmindedly as Dream shrieks in victory - he had just killed Sapnap. His affection for Dream grows, spreads from a comfortable warmth to heat to a blaze, to something that burned. 

George liked that burn.

 _It's stupid, George_ , he thinks. _You've known Dream for, like, two days. You can't already be in love with him_.

But George can, and he is. He supposes it has always been a weakness for him, the way he falls in love so quickly. And Dream is gorgeous. He cannot imagine anyone not having at least a crush on him.

"George," Dream says, and George sighs internally with relief that he was staring at the screen and not at Dream like he had been a few seconds ago. "Sapnap and I were speaking. We decided that it is time to get to know each other better." 

George blinks languidly at him. "Huh?" He says. 

"We want to get to know you, and each other, better," Dream repeats patiently. 

"That's surprising," George finds himself saying. "I didn't think you two were the touchy-feely type." 

Sapnap rolls his eyes. "Obviously not, _Gogy_ ," he says, and George cringes at the nickname. Sapnap smirks. "But since we're living here, we decided it would be worth it." 

George shrugs. "Okay," he says. "I'll go first, if you wan-"

Sapnap chirps, "But obviously we can't start without the _talking stick!_ We must have a talking stick!" George groans. Dream shoves a remote into Sapnap's hands. "There," he says. "There's our talking stick." 

Sapnap looks grumpy about something but says nothing, only silently handing the remote to George, more brusquely than needed. 

"Well." George says. "I'm... George. I'm 24-" He stops and glares at Sapnap, who had snorted. "Yes," he snaps. "24. Not everyone is immortal. Anyway. I like video games; my degree was in computer science. I also like coding; I do it in my spare time. Uh, I work at Starbucks, because I'm working on a coding project-" he gets interrupted by Sapnap again who, for someone who brought up the talking stick, was not doing well abiding by its rules. 

"Pfft. Boring. Tell us the steamy stuff, George. When was your first kiss? Are you a-" he wiggles his eyebrows, "-viiirgin?" 

Dream bursts into a fit of laughter as George feels a blush rise. He wishes that he wasn't so pale so the blush would be less visible. It was also stupid, what he was blushing over. It reminded him too much of high school, when he was a skinny, gawking kid, getting flustered over stuff like that. 

He supposes he is still a skinny, gawking kid. 

"Um," he says. "My first kiss was very awkward, understandably. I guess it was nice..." 

He doesn't mention that it was with another man.

* * *

George doesn't resent sleeping next to Dream anymore. He doesn't know why he protested in the first place, actually. 

They aren't cuddling this time, to his dismay. He is awake, and he can tell that Dream is awake as well. Their backs are pressed against each other as both try to fall asleep. 

And then Dream gets up. 

George opens his eyes to slits, a trick he had learned long ago, where he could see but still appear to be asleep. He can only see Dream's legs as he stands before him.

He's wondering what Dream is doing when he feels Dream lay his calloused hand on George's brow, soft as a whisper. Barely there. George barely prevents himself from stiffening. 

And then it's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I'm sorry I need to stop ending the chapters with them going to sleep
> 
> Also just in case you're wondering how this is a slowburn considering George is already sickeningly in love with Dream, it's that Dream takes a while to realise and then accept his feelings for George :D 
> 
> Poor ol' Gogy.


End file.
